Volatile
by IronSparrow99
Summary: Six missing team members. Six hostages. One messed up organization. And only one hope for rescue - in the form of Taylor Stark. And did we mention that there weren't any metal suits allowed? *Iron Beta 'verse*
1. Chapter 1

Volatile

My Thursday started very normal, thank you very much.

{Normal for _me_ , anyways.)

My dad, my boyfriend, and the rest of the merry band of superheroes were out investigating a rapidly growing terrorist cell down in Florida, which was a short flight by supersonic jet. I was _supposed_ to be at a meeting, but it turned out that the other guy, an Eliseo Franco – Italian business man – had 'prior engagements' and 'would have to reschedule in two months'.

I didn't want to know _what_ he was doing that would take two whole months, but at least it gave me a day off.

So I planted myself in the workshop, dragged out my bike, and slid under it to tweak a few things, enhance a few other things, and a small thing here and another there; not to mention it was covered in fingerprints and desperately needed a polish.

And everything was going just _swimmingly_ until some song by The Ramones was interrupted by the one – and only – Jarvis. _"Ma'am? You have an incoming transmission."_

"Mm?" I remove a screwdriver from where I was holding it in between my teeth. "Where from, J?"

"… _it's untraceable, ma'am."_

I frown slightly as I slide out from under my bike, tapping a screen to lower it back down onto the ground and keep it there before making my way over to my desk chair. "Do you know what it is?"

There's a slight pause. _"No, the content is locked to all but you."_

"Okay…" I lean back slightly in my chair. "So whoever sent it must either _be_ computer literate or _know_ someonethat is." I sigh. "Play it on monitor 7."

" _Yes, ma'am."_

I grab one of the screens nearest to me as it's cleared of all data, which was replaced by a video.

The footage starts, the screen lightening to reveal a man with buzz cut black hair, dark brown eyes, and mocha brown skin. _"_ MissStark _."_

I frown at him. "Who the hell are you?"

The man chuckles darkly, sending alarm bells off in my head. _"Now, now, Stark, where are your manners?"_

I paste on a fake smile. "I'm sorry, can you _please_ tell me _who the freaking hell you are_?"

The man glares at me. "If you insist…my name is Ansari. Or, at least, that is what you will be calling me. I am a part of the Blood Moon. I trust that you have heard of us-"

I frown – the name sounded familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"-because _we_ have heard so much about _you_. You and your team of cretins."

I stay silent despite the barb, wanting to know who this man – Ansari – was and why he had called me.

"The Blood Moon is an honorable organization. We serve only to do what is right. Those who stand in our way shall feel our wrath-"

"And burn in the rotting pits of hell, yadda, yadda, yadda," I cut off his rambling, twisted-patriotic monologue. "Old news, buddy. I'm not interested."

"Oh, but you will be," he smirks. "Once you learn that we have something you desperately need. Or…six things, actually."

 _Six things…crap._ I lean forward in my chair. "Is that so?"

He nods, a sick, gleeful twinkle in his eyes. "It is, Miss Stark. I have to say, they are not as useless as they seem. The redheaded one is feisty, just how we like them…Mr. Stark is incredibly irritating though; maybe we should squish him like the pest he is…" he trails off in a bored, nonchalant tone.

I suppress a growl as I stare him down. "Where? Where do you have them?"

I wasn't really surprised when he laughed. "Oh, no, why would I tell you that? But, since I'm nice-"

I snort quietly. _Nice? Right, and Natasha's making daisy crowns._

"-I will give you this little piece. You will not be able to hide behind your metal mask, Miss Stark, because the energy would not have made it one inch inside."

And then I'm left staring at an empty hologram.

"Jarvis?" I whisper shakily.

" _Ma'am?"_

"Okay…" I rub a hand over my face. "So…this Ansari guy has the team. Has Dad."

" _Yes, ma'am, unfortunately,"_ the Ai replies, his voice almost sounding sorrowful.

I nod and bite my lip, leaning back to study the ceiling. "What do you think he meant when he said that I would 'not be able to hide behind your metal mask,' because 'the energy would not have made it one inch inside'?"

" _Well, ma'am, the most common deflection type for electronic devices is the Electromagnetic Pulse, or EMP. Other types include magnetic fields and other force field technologies which have not be on the consumer market yet."_

"So you're saying it's probably an EMP?"

" _Yes, ma'am,"_ he confirms.

"And how do my shields look on the suits?"

" _Almost nonexistent, ma'am,"_ Jarvis almost-sighs. _"The after effects of the battle in Connecticut last month."_

I groan softly as I remember the battle that not only completely disabled the shields on the Betta III, which I had been in at the time, but also sent a virus over the network the suits use to interconnect, therefore purging all the other shields too. "So there's no suit tech? At all?"

" _None suitable for a rescue mission involving these circumstances, Miss Stark."_

I swear softly and slam a hand on the table as I grit my teeth. "How's the backup looking?"

" _There is none, ma'am, seeing as Sir and the Avengers are the subject of this operation."_

"No-freaking- _way_ , Jarvis." I snap at the ceiling. "I had no idea. What I _meant_ was the obscure resources. War Machine. Falcon. Anyone like that?"

There's a slight hesitation as he searches for the two mentioned. _"No, ma'am. Colonel Rhodes is currently on a top-secret mission in a location that appears to be African and Mr. Wilson is currently assisting Dr. Richards and his team in another dimension."_

"Good _god_ ," I groan, "my luck is utter crap. Do we have _any other options_?"

" _No, Miss Stark, I'm afraid not."_

"So I'm stuck with saving all of their sorry butts," I surmise.

" _It would appear so, ma'am."_

I huff and spin myself in the chair. "Fine. Prepare plan B-19-16-1-18-18-15-23."

There's a slight hesitation again. _"Ma'am, are you sure-"_

"Yes. _Now_ , Jarvis, we don't know how much time we have."

"… _yes, of course, ma'am. It is being assembled in lab 6."_

I nod curtly. "Thank you. And while I'm busy with that, I need you to find that compound. I don't care where you have to look, J, just get it done – hack first and seek forgiveness later, you know the drill."

" _Of course, ma'am."_

.

About an hour later, Jarvis informs me that, out of all the world's population, he's found six heat signatures meeting those of the team. They're in Jennings, Florida; a small Northern town near the border with Georgia. It would take me approximately six hours at top speed on my bike – which was about two hundred miles per hour – to get there from here.

I nod silently as I swipe a card that allows me access to lab 6 – a smaller, almost unused lab on the thirteenth floor, which nobody really used at all (superheroes were oddly superstitious); in other words, the perfect place to prefect a whole new alias.

Plan B-19-16-1-18-18-15-23, or Sparrow for short, was my back up plan. My dad had one too – just in the form of almost forty or so suits.

The problem with that was that if one suit failed for some reason, his backup plan just got kicked out the window with it because _those failed too._

So, instead, I created something else, something with as little technology as possible. It relied on my skill as a combatant, using guns and knives and armor.

Don't get me wrong – I was still Iron Beta. And proud. And I would still dropkick you into next month if you insulted my family, team, or tech.

But in the rare, rare, _extremely rare_ instances in which I couldn't be Iron Beta because of technical difficulties, I would be Sparrow instead.

The suit I had made for myself – which was now resting in a glass case across the room – started with a long sleeved black shirt and pants that covered about half my ankles. This layer was snug but not too tight as to restrict my movement. They were slightly thicker than the black spandex undersuits Dad and I wore, but still flexible. Padding was also placed on my chest to hide the telltale glow of the reactor.

The next layer was the armor, still pure black – a mixture of Kevlar, adamantium sheeting, and all infused with steel. It could very well be the strongest cloth on earth, but it was still only ¾ of an inch thick and flexible enough for me to roll up like a newspaper. I had padding on my knees, elbows, stomach, upper back, shoulders (like epaulets), the outside of my forearms, and from my collar bone down to the curve of my chest. The armor also formed a stiff yet flexible two inch collar to protect my neck.

The final pieces were the accessories –the sunglasses, belt, and boots.

The sunglasses looked like the ones Clint wore – slim and wraparound, black with slightly purple lenses. Mine, however, had a targeting system and translator for written languages.

The belt was made up of tiny pockets (like Batman's utility belt, only so much cooler). Pockets that housed four grappling hook that collapsed to about four inch long rods, extra magazines, tiny but powerful flashlights, extra earpieces, a Taser, batteries, and two gun and knife holsters, one of each on each hip.

The boots were a matte black, made of thick leather that reached just past my ankle. They had sound absorbing foam on the inside of the bottom, to aid in my steps being completely silent. Each shoe had a little secret compartment in the sole, made to hide various items that didn't need to be found.

Once I'm all suited up, I slip my pistols into their holsters on my hips and hide four knives in various spots.

"Jarvis? How do I look?"

" _Positively terrifying, ma'am,"_ he assures me, and if he didn't sound proud then I wasn't a Stark.

"Aw, thanks," I smirk, "you make my day. Now can you get my bike ready?"

" _It's already loaded in it's storage compartment, ma'am."_

"You're amazing, do you know that Jarvis?"

" _Of course, Miss Stark."_

Fifteen minutes later I'm speeding south on some rural backroad at nearly one hundred and fifty miles an hour, quickly approaching two hundred as I follow Jarvis' direction, which echoed inside my helmet.

I was Sparrow, and I had a mission.

Was I alone?

Yes.

Was I still only nineteen?

Yes.

Was I out for Ansari's blood?

 _Yes._


	2. Chapter 2

**Review! I love the amount of reviewers that loved the last chapter.**

* * *

Natasha's POV

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

As clichéd as that sounds, it really wasn't. The mission was supposed to be a simple recon thing – get close, take down the necessary info, and get back out again.

Instead the six of us were currently sitting, chained to the wall – with Bruce and Thor deep in unconsciousness, Steve passed out in a corner, Clint stripped down to his boxers and all of us weaponless - in a Floridian prison because some cultish terrorist cell willed it so.

I curl my lip. "Черт вас всех к русской ад."

A sigh comes from my left – and I'm only sure it's Clint because we were partners for eight years, teammates for another three. "Putting them all in Russian hell isn't going to help much, Tasha."

"Yeah," another voice pipes up, across from me and slightly to the right, "if anything, it'll just irritate them. Believe me…I should know."

I nod at the seldom reference to Afghanistan, coming from the master of irritating people. "How's the doc?"

There's slight shuffling, then "Still out like a light. What did they inject again?"

"A stronger form of whatever they gave Cap," I nod to a silent corner of the cell.

"Most likely elephant tranquilizer," Clint surmises. "Maybe bear. Or moose. Thor's down too."

"Lovely," Tony groans quietly, then raises his voice a bit. "Spangles! You up yet?"

"Tony!" I hiss. "Keep it down!"

There's a scuffing sound and a few thuds. "Where are we?"

"Nice of you to join us, Rogers," I call softly. "Sit-rep?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Slight headache, sore beyond belief, slightly dizzy, and my head feels all cloudy...but I'm okay. And you?"

I give him a brief list of the teams' injuries and what had happened up to this point.

"Is the cavalry coming?"

"The Cavalry?" Clint sounds confused. "We sort of left her at S.H.I.E.L.D…"

"No, not _the_ Cavalry," I correct. "The _cavalry_ , generically. Is Falcon still doing that thing…?"

"Yeah, he's still in Dimension Z with the Four," Steve confirms. "What about Colonel Rhodes?"

"He's doing some top secret thing in somewhere that I'm not supposed to know about." Tony interjects softly.

I raise an eyebrow and give him a skeptical look, even though he can't see it. "And…?"

"And?"

"The story does not stop there with you, Stark."

He huffs. " _Fine_. I…might have…kind of…"

"Spit it out!"

"I-got-Taylor-to-hack-it-instead," he says in a rush of breath, and everything falls silent for a moment.

"You…you made your nineteen year old daughter _hack_ the _United States Army_?" Steve asks, disbelief lacing his voice. "Tony-"

"I didn't _force_ her!" he protests hotly. "I just provided a challenge, and, like any good Stark, she got it done! In under two minutes, I might add."

"Yes, yes, Tony, we get it – you're proud of her-" Steve starts exasperatedly.

"And he's not the only one," Clint interrupts defensively.

"-but back on point: Rhodes is not coming?"

"…no."

"Wonderful," he sighs. "So our hope of rescue lies on the shoulders of an nineteen year old."

"Hey! She is a very competent nineteen year old!" Clint defends.

"With a modernized suit of armor!" Tony adds.

"But-"

I perk up as something outside the cell catches my ear. "Everyone shut up!"

They do, and Clint waits a minute before murmuring, "Natasha, hvað þú heyrir?" in Icelandic.

"Rólegur, fugl." I hiss, just as a man dressed in all black with a mask on steps into view.

"I would listen to the spider, Mr. Barton."

I blink, shocked that this man – probably part of an Afghani terrorist-cult – would understand Icelandic, given that Iceland is nowhere near (or similar to) the Middle East.

"Do not look so shocked, Ms. Romanoff," the man laughs. "I am a very learned man."

"Who are you?" I demand.

The man raises an eyebrow. "You are in no place to be making demands, Miss Romanoff."

"That doesn't mean I won't," I retort sharply. "Now, _who are you_?"

"I am Ansari, leader of the Blood Moon."

My mind uses that little tidbit to fill in few gaps: Blood Moon was the terrorist cell we were sent down here to spy on. They must have found out what we were doing, where we were, and when we were going to be there.

I can tell that Clint's made the same connections I have. "What do you want from us?"

"Only your cooperation, Mr. Barton," Ansari replies simply. "If you fall to me, the rest of the world has no hope. The Blood Moon will rule!"

"Mmhmm," Tony hums from behind. "Yeah, I've heard all this before. What makes you think we'll _fall_ to anyone ever, let alone _you_?"

Ansari grins. "Because, Mr. Stark, we have won. You have nothing – no weapons, no fancy suits, and no backup."

"They're going to find us eventually," Tony counters bravely. "I mean, really, you can't just kidnap someone like me and _not_ have people looking for me. They found me last time."

"They?" Ansari raises an eyebrow. "Do you not mean _she_?"

Tony's face loses a little color, but he stays silent.

"Yes, Mr. Stark, I know _all_ about your precious little girl. And you have made some connections too, Mr. Barton, if I remember correctly. Yes, it is quite unfortunate that she could not join us today. I would have enjoyed her company."

Tony and Clint growl almost inhumanly at our captor, but he doesn't even flinch.

"It is no matter, however. I believe she will be joining us shortly."

I blink. _What? Was Taylor kidnapped too? Oh, please no…_

Steve is the first to find his voice. "Did you take her too?"

"No," our captor laughs, "oh, no, we did not. Ms. Stark is coming over her own free will."

I hear Tony suck in a breath. "What did you tell her?"

Ansari shrugs. "I simply informed her that I had six items that she would dearly miss. She was jumping at the chance to join the party."

I groan softly. _A rescue mission…or a suicide mission._ I wince and banish the thought.

"She'll bring her suit," Tony boasts. "Taylor is far from stupid."

"I do not doubt that, Mr. Stark," Ansari nods. "But, if she does bring her suit, then it will simply become her own undoing. I will not have to hurt her if she dies while falling to the ground in a self-made metal casket."

Tony blinks. "Her suit…"

"Why do you think you do not have your precious Iron Man with you?"

"How are you blocking the suits?" I ask.

Ansari tilts his head slightly. "I cannot tell in English…نبض."

"نبض…" I repeat quietly. "Pulse." I look up at Ansari. "It's an energy pulse?"

He nods with a smile. "Smart Widow! Now, while we wait for our seventh guest, I'm going to make sure all of the _presents_ are in order."

I shiver and watch his back as Ansari walks out, two guards slamming the cast iron door behind him. Presents could mean a lot of things in this situation, but none of them were good.

"So…someone want to fill me in?"

"It's an EMP, Tony," Clint reports quietly. "They put up an EMP shield. Can Taylor get past them?"

Tony's face goes white as he slowly shakes his head. "No…not since Connecticut. There was a virus in the suits and we didn't think we'd be needing them this soon."

I groan and lay my head back against the wall of our cell. "So she's coming on a rescues mission, sans suit…Tony?"

"What?"

"Is the suicidal trait inheritable?"

He glares at me, but his silence speaks volumes.

"She's not completely defenseless," Steve offers weakly. "She's got a bow."

Nobody says anything.

"Tasha?" Clint asks me, and I look over to see him giving me a worried look. "Is she going to be okay?"

This isn't Hawkeye looking at me. It isn't even Agent Barton, nor is it Clint Barton: tough guy. No, this is just a twenty three year old worried beyond belief for his girlfriend.

I can see the heart that she fell in love with.

"I…" I swallow around the lump in my throat. "I don't know."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I've changed the story a bit so that Taylor's nineteen and this happens after Iron Beta 3, because there's going to be a line coming up in the next chapter that would make no sense otherwise. I've gone back and changed the other chapters to match this.**

* * *

Around three hours later, by my best estimate and Clint's internal clock, no progress was being made on escape. The only thing that had changed after Ansari talked to us was the introduction of his _presents,_ and that left Clint with broken ribs, Steve a concussion, Tony had a dislocated shoulder, Thor - who had woken up about two and a half hours ago - had a broken nose (but was healing at godly rate), and I had a gash about five inches long in my forearm.

We didn't know if Taylor - or anyone else, for that matter - was coming to save us, but there had been no contact from anyone on the outside, and we decided not to waste our energy by trying, most likely in vain, to establish contact.

We were all extremely tense, waiting and ready for anything; whether it be rescue, an opportunity to escape.

"Natasha!" Clint hisses in the dark, ripping me from my thoughts.

I'm on full alert in a second. "What?"

"Someone's coming," Steve answers softly, and sure enough the single light turns on, causing us to squint as someone steps into the spotlight. It's not Ansari, but just some assistant thug instead.

"The prisoners are to be brought to the interrogation chambers," the guy, probably no older than 25, drones mindlessly. "They will submit to the reign and calling of the Blood Moon. The Blood Moon is honorable, the Blood Moon is – ack!"

He's cut off by a wet gurgling sound, and he stumbles sideways and drops like a sack of potatoes. I can just barely see the bullet hole in his neck – but we didn't hear a gunshot.

"I heard a click," Steve whispers, thanks to his serum-enhanced hearing, and Clint nods. "Like a silencer."

I nod, sharing a glance with Thor and Tony. This might be rescue, this might just be it…

"Show yourself," Steve commands to the darkness, not in a particularly loud voice but one that makes you want to do whatever he says.

Everything stays silent and still for a few more seconds, until I just catch a shadow uncurling itself from the roof at the edge of the light – right where nobody would see them until it was too late; the contrast between light and dark was too much for anyone to see anything definite.

"Show yourself," Steve asks again, this time a little more urgent.

The shadow drops about nine feet to the ground, landing agilely on his/her feet, the impact not making a sound. I can clearly see a pistol in their right hand, so whoever this is shot the thug. The shadow stands slowly, taking a slow step to the right, ending up in the middle of the spotlight.

Taylor's wearing her customary smirk. "Miss me?"

Tony is left sputtering. "Holy… _holy_...what?!"

Taylor whips a finger to her lips. "это не безопасно. Natasha?"

I nod, relaying the message in English. "It's not safe."

"No s - no _duh_ ," Tony remarks, and his daughter just gives him a stern look.

I take a second to study the youngest Avenger. She's decked out in pure, dark black; you can't even see her reactor glow. The armor she's wearing covers all important organs like her stomach, lungs, and heart, with her belt not only covering her kidneys but also carrying guns, ammo, and a plethora of other useful stuff. Her normally sparkling blue eyes are fully covered by a slim black pair of sunglasses with dark purple lenses.

 _She didn't rush in rashly_ , I reflect proudly, _she means business._

Footsteps make us all go on alert, but Taylor doesn't even blink as two more thugs burst through a door, just blindly tosses a knife over her shoulder, hitting Thug 1 in the neck and dropping him, then turning to put one bullet between Thug 2's eyes.

I hear Tony give a low whistle behind me as Taylor goes over, closes the door, bolts it, and wedges something underneath the bolt to keep it there before walking back over to us. "That'll hold for a bit."

"Okay, good…now, _what. The. Hell?!_ " I hear Tony demand behind me.

Taylor, for all her dangerous looks, actually adopts an expression that is equal parts sheepish and indignant. "Well nobody else was coming! So…" she shrugs.

"I like it," Clint offers. "But what is _it_?"

"I call it Plan B-19-16-1-18-18-15-23."

"…huh?"

"Plan B – Sparrow," Taylor clarifies. "I call it Sparrow. Sans-suit. Later."

Clint nods sharply, obviously recognizing who's temporarily in charge.

"So!" Taylor tenses slightly, suddenly all-business. "Injury report?"

"Cap's got a concussion, Hawk's got broken ribs, Tony's got a dislocated shoulder, Thor's got a sore – previously broken nose, and Banner's still out."

"Widow has a gash, left forearm," Clint interjects, and I glare at him.

Taylor nods. "No Hulk?"

"No Hulk. Drugs."

She nods again and moves over to study the locked door of the cell for a moment before turning to us. "Are there any keys?"

Tony shakes his head. "With the head guy."

Taylor nods, sighs, and lifts her left boot to fiddle with something in the heel. She gets a small compartment open, and pulls out something I instantly recognize as a multi-lock pick. She fiddles with the lock for a few seconds before there's a click that sounds like a thunderclap in the quiet room.

We all freeze for a moment, waiting with bated breath for any sign of movement. Once the coast is clear again, Taylor jogs over to me and quickly picks my shackles, pressing the lock pick into my hands as she unholsters one of her guns and goes to wait by the door.

Once we're all free, I turn to Taylor, who had her back to us. "What now?"

I watch her stiffen and hold up a hand for us to wait as she silently springs upwards to grab onto a thin pipe running above the door and pull her boots up to brace just above the doorway. "Silencieux." _Quiet. French._

I nod and wait as footsteps thunder towards our room, a thug bursting in the doorway –

Only to be kicked in the back of the head by Taylor's boot swinging down and smashing into the base of his skull, most likely either shattering a few vertebrae, his spinal cord, or his brain stem. Taylor lands silently and proceeds to take the dead man's shirt off his body and rips into strips. She walks back over to us and glances at Clint. "Search him for anything valuable."

While he trots over to do that, she waves me over, several of the fabric strips in her hands. "Your arm," she orders. "Let me see it."

I sigh and roll up my sleeve. She studies the wound for a moment before taking one of the strips and lying it lengthwise, along the cut, and then take several more strips and wrapping them around the wound.

"That should hold until we can get out," she assures me. "But don't push it."

"Jackpot!" Clint trots back over with a few knives, magazines, a few big handguns, and an Uzi-looking gun. He hands me an eight inch serrated hunting knife, a handgun, and three magazines, taking the Uzi himself along with another handgun and two more magazines and two throwing knives. Tony gets handed another, deadlier, knife and Thor, thankfully, knows how to use the knife he's given to guard Bruce. Steve is given the last handgun and magazines after he's assured us that his concussion has cleared up.

"Alright," Taylor breaths as soon as we're all standing in the center of room, armed and about 75% dangerous. "Does anyone know a way out?"

"Do you have Jarvis?" Tony asks hopefully. "Because he could probably trace your route in."

She shakes her head. "I have him connected to my bike outside, but I needed complete radio silence in here. Not that it would've even worked, with the EMP."

Tony pauses, but eventually slumps in defeat and concession. "Right."

Taylor then looks at the rest of us. "Does anyone have a problem relinquishing control to me?"

We all shake our heads and I catch her attention with a two-fingered salute. "You're the boss here, Sparrow."

She nods and jogs over to release the door. "Good, but I want Steve back in place ASAP," she calls over her shoulder. "This is so far above my pay grade. I'm like, what, seventh in command here?"

Tony starts counting off fingers. "Cap, me, spider, birdbrain, Bruce, you, and then Thor. Technically sixth."

"If it's just me and Thor, there isn't much point to leadership left."

"But still-"

Taylor perks up and stares at the door. "Shh!"

I focus my ears on a muffle sound on the other side of the door. _Footsteps?_

"Footsteps," Clint unknowingly confirms, chambering a round in his handgun. "We're about to have company."

I barely see Taylor's nod. "Form up," she orders hurriedly, "Thor and Bruce in the center. Dad, left flank. Tasha, back left, guard him. Clint, front right flank, at my shoulder. Steve, you're at the back. Yes?"

Faint agreement is heard all over, and I can hear the loading of multiple guns as I get into position.

"Try not to sound like a drunken herd of elephants. Go!"

We're moving at a decent pace out of the room, the first few seconds only sound being two pairs of footsteps – Bruce was unconscious and Clint, Taylor (somehow) and I were silent.

Then Clint sounds the first warning and the guy that rounds the corner lasts all of a second before a bullet enters his head, followed closely by a second in his right eye and a third in his stomach.

But he's followed by a second, a third, and a fourth-

I internally grin sadistically at the familiarity of bullets whizzing everywhere and opponents dropping like _flies._ Old habits die hard, indeed.

Once the smoke has cleared, I find myself in front of Tony, who's recovered a gun from somewhere and seems to have a basic enough understanding of it's usage. Bruce is still unconscious, but the rest of us are just slightly rumpled. Taylor is still at the front of the 'pack', eyes calmly scanning over all of us. Clint is pressed back-to-back with her, shoulders brushing with every little movement.

Eventually they step away from each other, and Taylor lowers her pistol with an "all clear." And, just like that, a huge ball of tension unravels between all of us.

"That was fun." I grin.

Clint nods. "Kind of nostalgic," he agrees.

"All we really need now is-" Taylor cuts herself off as her eyes fall on one of the bodies, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh, no _way_!" She rushes over and flips the guy on his stomach, grabbing something off his back and heading back over to us.

Shoving the object into the light, it's revealed to be a bow – a perfectly curved longbow, about four and half feet long, carved from what looked like ivory with a bowstring made of what looked like leather.

"It looks hand made," Clint observes quietly.

"Well the maker's dead," Taylor flaps a hand to the body she got it from. "And finders keepers."

Clint immediately makes a grab for the bow, but Taylor slaps his hand away before he can touch it.

"No," she scolds. "You have broken ribs, and we both know how much stress drawing a bow back puts on your ribs if they aren't fully healed. You can have it when we get back, alright?"

I can't tell if this is Clint's girlfriend or his commander speaking, and apparently neither can he – because all he does is nod slowly and fall into a sultry silence.

Taylor studies the bow for a moment, giving the string an experimental tug before coming up with a decision. "I can use this, although my shoulders are going to hate me in the morning."

I nod and hand her the quiver, a stiff leather pouch filled with more ivory arrows, and she slings it across her back and her gloved hands tighten around the bow instinctively, and I see a slight amount of power flood her eyes – Sparrow, one of two of the best archers in the world, has her hands on a bow.

"Come on," she grins slightly maliciously, "let's move."


	4. Chapter 4

And move we do – one hour, fifteen minutes later (Taylor has a clock _somewhere_ ) we reach what was probably our best bet out; a second floor window facing outwards and we could barely see another rooftop.

"Um, not to ruin the ideas here," Tony interrupts. "But that's a big gap and none of have wings. Right?"

Taylor glances out the window, and I can almost see the gears turning in her head as she completely ignores her dad. "That's about a forty five foot gap with a twenty foot drop to the ground and a three foot height difference between here and that roof. That would need…about fifty feet of rope to make it safely across."

"And do you have fifty feet of rope?" Steve asks dubiously.

Taylor just nods, opens a pouch on the belt, and shows us the four inch metal rod in her hand. "Grappling hook," she announces. "Sixty feet."

Steve looks surprised, but I just shake my head in amusement – I learned long, long ago to never underestimate a Stark. Not even having their own inventions try to kill them can stop their innovations.

"And how, pray tell, are you going to get that over there?" Tony asks bemusedly. "You can't swing across; that roof is lower than this one.'

"Which means I can zip line," Taylor counters, then gives all of us a calculating look. "Steve, I need your help."

"With?" he asks skeptically.

She presses a button on the rod, causing one end to open up and eject a few inches of a corded rope. She holds the rope and hands Steve the attached rod. "Throw this over there," she nods at the other roof, "and please, whatever you do, don't overshoot."

Steve looks hesitant, but Taylor gives him a little sterner look and presses the rod into his hands before he nods. "Fine."

Taylor steps to the side, still holding the rope, with a satisfied nod as Steve winds his arm back like a baseball pitcher and tosses the rod out, the metal quickly disappearing into the black night.

The youngest Avenger, however, just fiddles with something on the sunglasses she was still wearing for some reason and stares out into the night. "It's attached," she announces about forty seconds later.

"What?" she demands at all of our confused looks. "Night vision glasses, duh. Now, we just attach this here…" she walks over and sticks the rope to the wall behind us before grabbing it with both hands and pressing down, putting all of her 120 pounds on the rope as she lifted her feet out in front of her.

"What are you doing?" Thor asks curiously, finally breaking his silence.

"Testing my weight," she explains. "And it'll hold…me, at least. Now, who wants to be the first to venture into the unknown?"

We all look at her like she's finally crossed the line between genius and insanity before Clint breaks the silence with a sigh. "I'll go. "You're lucky I love you, and you owe me one."

Taylor nods, a smirk playing at her lips. "I'll pay you back later, don't worry."

…Somehow, I don't think they're talking about zip lines anymore, and _I don't want to know._

"Hey, lovebirds, move it," Tony gripes, and they both glare at him before Clint wraps his arms and legs around the rope and Taylor gives him a slight push out the window and he disappears.

Taylor once again stares after him, nodding after about thirty seconds. "He's made it, and – whoa."

"What?" I ask, slightly worried, considering her rapidly darkening expression.

"Everything's gone green – I don't understand," Taylor breaths, rambling slightly, "where's the light?"

"What?" Steve looks so confused. "What light, it's pitch black out there!"

Tony and I start to explain, but she beats us to the punch. "Night vision technology works off the ambient light already in a place, Steve. No matter how dark it is, there's _always_ light – except for out there, apparently, because all I can see is green, which means darkness." She breaks off with a few swear words, not even noticing her dad's reprimanding look. "Hawkeye's out there with no communications and now I've lost him."

"Hey!" Steve cuts her off with a firm hand on her shoulder, fingers falling into the grooves on her armor. "Sparrow. Iron Beta. We need your head in this, and we need you here. Focus."

Her hunched shoulders flatten out slightly and I can somehow tell she's closed her eyes behind the shades. "Understood, Captain. Alright, so here's-"

She's cut off again by a familiar voice. "Oh, Sparrow! Come out, come out wherever you are!"

Everyone – or at least everyone on this side of the gap – freezes.

Taylor's hands go white-knuckled on the bow. "Ansari," she hisses, and I can see some more selective words forming on her tongue, but she's halted by Tony's stern, parental glare; instead she just pushes a breath through clenched teeth and mutters in Russian under her breath – something about Ansari waking up drunk and in bed with a donkey.

"Ms. Stark!" the terrorist calls. "Oops, I mean _Sparrow_. Come on out!"

Taylor sighs. "What do you _want,_ you psycho?"

"That is not very pleasant, Miss Stark. Do you want to try again?" he mocks.

Her grip goes even tighter on the bow and I can see her fingering the string in anticipation. I start to intervene, but she simply holds up a hand. "Why are you doing this? Why this last step?"

"What else to make you suffer?" Ansari asks, as if it were the simplest answer in the world and Taylor was born yesterday. "It was inevitable as soon as you entered my compound that I would take one of them to ensure that you suffered for your misdeeds, little one, and _this_ one-" there's a scuffling sound, a grunt of pain, and Taylor twitches slightly, "-was practically delivered to my door."

Taylor's eyes widen slightly as she realizes something the rest of us don't and takes half a step back, grabs her dad's arm, and shoves him behind Steve without taking her eyes off the window. Then her face goes back to neutral and she taps something on the side of her glasses. "Why me, Ansari?"

"You ruined my plan!" the terrorist complains loudly, still unseen. "Everything was going to plan until you charged in!"

"You practically invited me," she reminds him. "I was having a perfectly normal Thursday night before you called."

"I only called because I wanted all…how do you say?...ah, the full set. You were not supposed to make it out alive."

"Too bad," she snaps. "You underestimated me."

"Yes well…what is the American saying? Fool me once, shame on you…fool my twice, shame on me. Or, more precisely, shame on the hawk." There's a grunt, a crunch I can hear forty five feet away, and a hiss that would've probably been a scream of pain under different circumstances. I tense and Taylor's eyes snap shut, one hand slowly reaching up to remove the glasses, folding them away into a pocket of her belt before she takes a deep breath and eases them open again.

Her gaze is _murderous._

"Ansari!" she barks. "Let him go!"

Seeing as we were obviously past negotiation, the atmosphere between the six of us on this side darkens. Steve and I place our hands on our guns, Tony takes another step behind Steve, and Thor tenses from his position in front of Bruce. Taylor draws one arrow from the quiver and lays in across the string; not notching it, not pulling it, just letting it lay there.

Nothing happens for a second, then Taylor slowly lets go the arrow and moves a hand towards a pocket on her belt. She pulls out two objectd, both about the size of an egg, and somehow attaches them to the rope. I can barely hear her whisper of "I'm sorry, Clint," before she lets them go.

I don't have time to ask what she just did, because a second later the night is lit up with a blinding flash, a bang, echoes off the building, and a hiss can just be heard under all the noise.

Taylor quickly puts her glasses back on. "Yes! Ansari's gone, I have eyes on the hawk! Steve I need you to go check on Clint." She hands him a small flashlight. "Dad, stay here and watch Bruce. Thor, guard them. Stay here! Natasha, follow me!"

I jog after her as she takes off the way we came, quickly failing in step with her despite the ground-eating canter she was setting. "What was that?"

"A flash bang grenade and a smoke bomb," she explains. "A distraction."

"And you apologized to Clint because…?"

"I didn't know where he was, so I didn't know if the grenades would hit him," she admits. "Really hoping I didn't hurt him."

"Even if you did, he knows you wouldn't hurt him on purpose."

She doesn't answer, instead taking a sharp left and approaching another window. "Fire escape's out there."

I silently nod as I asses the window – four glass panes divided by a metal cross, about five feet off the ground. "What now?"

She waves a hand and makes me back up about two feet before taking a step forward and settling into one of the many positions I taught her for martial arts; I raise an eyebrow in confusion but don't speak.

And her intentions are clear as she snaps a leg out and around in a high spinning kick, kicking out the lower left window pain and jarring the frame, cracking all the others. She then reproaches the window, retrieving one of her bigger knives and using the butt of the handle to smash out the other three panes before flipping the blade and using it as a wedge to free the frame from its holdings.

"You know," I comment casually, as if we weren't chasing a terrorist responsible for kidnapping our entire team, "I've done that move once. In…Guatemala, I think, just before all of…this."

Her tone matches my own as she replies from her spot outside the window, on the rickety landing of the fire escape. "Don't think I've heard that one, you'll have to tell me sometime – you know, _later_."

I give a small nod as I slide up to her side, on the railing of the landing but not really putting much weight on it since it looks capable of giving out at any moment. The night in front of us, however, is still pitch black, lit with only the stars above us. "Where is he?"

Taylor frowns slightly as she configures her glasses again, slowly turning her head to scan our surroundings and suddenly freezing with her head tilted slightly down and to the left. "Down and to our left."

I peek over her shoulder, blinking into the dark. "You're the only one that can see him, Taylor."

She blinks, looks at me, and back at where I presume Ansari to be. "Oh, right…ah!" She snaps her fingers quietly as that _look_ – the 'this-is-a-crazy-idea-but-it- _will_ -work,-I-swear,' look. "Cover me."

"I don't know what you're doing," I grumble as I draw my gun, "but do it fast."

"Will do," she breathes from her new position, kneeling behind me.

I purse my lips as I go on full alert, staring out into the dark. After about five minutes of silence, I hear the landing creak behind me in a way that can only signify a shifting of weight and a single word in Russian: "сделано." _It is done._

I nod and lower my gun slightly, motioning with my free hand for her to come up next to me, which she does, with an arrow in one hand and the bow in another.

"'Let there be light,'" she quotes by way of explanation at my curious look. When I narrow my eyes at her, she just rolls her eyes and notches the arrow. "Trust me, I'm a genius."

"And so modest, too," I deadpan as she draws the bow back and aims at some unseen point in the dark, letting the arrow fly a hit it's target about five seconds later with a barely audible _thwonk_.

And then it starts to glow – a white glow, starkly contrasting against the night. "Taylor-" I gasp.

"Go! Aim four inches above the light and one to the right."

"Are-"

"Widow!" she snaps, her tone booking no room for argument. "Go! _Now!_ "

I nod as I take off down the creaky stairs, taking off after the light, which – I assumed – was somehow attached to the lead terrorist. I lose track of the twists and turns as my feet pound the ground, only breathing slightly deeper, even after an extended chase.

And then he and I round a final corner that has high brick and mud walls on three sides and a swinging, bare, flickering streetlight on one side.

"Give up, Ansari," I command, my voice distinct and steady. "You've lost."

"No!" the terrorist spins around to face me, a demented snarl on his face. "I do not lose! The Blood Moon will survive!"

I'm about to refute that when something catches me eye – or rather my ear. The click of a tiny pebble bouncing just behind my left shoe.

Then more.

 _Click. Click. Click. Click…click. Click. Click…click…click. Click. Click…click._

It only takes me a second to recognize the clicks for what they were: Morse code, which Steve had us all learn as soon as our first mission debrief; not that I didn't know it beforehand.

 _S-N-P-R._ Sniper. Someone had aim on Ansari and I, and I could only hope it was Taylor. Then more code – _T-R-U-S-T._

There's not a doubt in my mind now that Taylor – or, more aptly, Sparrow at the moment – has sighted us and is somewhere ready to take the single shot that ends this.

"It's over, Ansari," I tell him. "It's too late."

"It is never too late!" he screams desperately. "Never! Never! Never-" he's cut off, suddenly, his eyes rolling back in his head as he hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. I unholster my gun as I cautiously creep over to the body and look it over. I quickly find the cause of death – a single, thin, arrow to the neck; entering directly into the jugular vein and plugging it's own hole from the outside so he bled out inside his own body.

"Didn't anyone ever tell him 'never say never'?" a voice asks innocently, and I will forever deny jumping as I turned to see Taylor standing less than a foot away, leaning nonchalantly against one of the walls with the bow leaning against her leg.

I glare at her. "Lose the boots, alright? Only I get to do that on a regular basis."

"Clint has the ability to do it," she points out smugly.

"Yeah," I agree, "but he usually doesn't unless he's on a mission."

"Speaking of missions," she shoves off the wall, "let's get this wrapped up. I want to go home."

I give her a mock salute and jog after her as we head back to wherever the rendezvous point was. "Home?"

"Home."

* * *

 **Reviews make me happy, people! And happy Halloween, to all who celebrate it.**


	5. Chapter 5

The infirmary doors open with a _whoosh_ of depressurized air, granting me access without the staff even glancing my way or at the cups I was holding; not that they should, I'm in here often enough.

Occupational hazards, you know.

The hospital room – and we're weren't at a hospital really, just another Stark-funded facility – was big enough to fit seven beds and then some; thankfully, seven beds was all that was needed.

The first bed had Bruce passed out on it, sleeping off the drugs they had given them after about five or so hours under their influence. His recovery depended purely on time, they said; after the drugs wore off, he would be as fine as he was before this whole ordeal.

Bed two belonged to Thor – or, it had, because the god was currently nowhere to be found and the only sign he had been there was a dent in the pillow and Jane's current science journal on his nightstand. I didn't really blame him for leaving; all he had was a broken nose, which was healed by the time we left the compound. Why the doctors kept him was beyond me.

Bed three was Steve's, who was currently fast asleep and snoring softly, an alarm by his bed to make sure he gets woken up every two hours to make sure he can still tell us what his name is, where he is, and what the Director of SHIELD's name is. We quickly found we couldn't ask him what the year was or who the president was, when he first had a concussion a few years ago, because he's originally from the 1940's and the fact seems to be more prominent when he was just waking up.

Bed four is mine, but all I have to show for my time in captivity was five stiches on my arm, over the gash that Taylor had bandaged up.

That left beds five through seven, and their occupants were the only ones awake.

Five and six were arranged perpendicular to each other so Clint could lay out comfortably and still have his head on Taylor's lap, her fingers combing through his hair while she and Tony, who was on his own hospital bed and had his injured shoulder and the attached arm in a sling, held an animated discussion about something on the hologram in front of them.

It had been twelve hours since we got out of the compound.

Twelve hours since Taylor had taken the shot that killed Ansari.

This mission was hard on all of us (we even submitted to the infirmary without much complaint), but Taylor, especially, was taking a bit of time to recover. I think she mentioned something about 'the right mindset' before she fell asleep on the plane ride home.

I approach quietly so as to not wake Clint, a notoriously light sleeper. "Hey, I brought coffee." I pass her one of the cups, a mocha whip with whipped cream, chocolate creamer, and a double shot of Espresso. One part sugar coma, the other part pure caffeine. "You're lucky – the only reason they had that creamer was because he," I nod at Tony, "owns this place."

She shrugs as she takes a sip of the coffee before reaching to set it down on the bedside table, next to her sunglasses and one of her guns. "I don't care how you got it, just that you did."

I smirk and take a sip of my own black coffee with two sugars and a tiny bit of plain creamer. "You looked like you needed it."

Her eyes meet mine for a split second, and she gives me a minuscule nod. I could tell that she was aching to get home, into the workshop, and become Iron Beta again. She was good at Sparrow, but that was like being a good actor: if you played the part too much, you would eventually _become_ the part.

The smell of coffee must be an alarm clock of some sort, because everyone in the room starts stirring and the room is soon filled with what must be the entire nursing staff. I send one of them to get four more coffees and a Gatorade for Thor (because trust me. you do _not_ want to see him on a caffeine high).

Once everyone's fully awake, caffeinated, and sitting up, Steve clears his throat. "Are we all up for a post-mission report?"

"No," Tony groans, speaking for all of us, "but what choice do we have?"

Steve shrugs apologetically. "So, Sparrow-"

Taylor shakes her head immediately. "No, Steve."

"Oh." Realization dawns on the Captain's face. "Beta?"

Her face lights up, and she grins. "Yes?"

"Explain."

She sighs. "I thought we went through this already? Fine. This is in case I need to get a mission done without the suit, which will not be very often, because Jarvis is upgrading all shields as we speak. Sparrow flies completely under the radar, and I can even use a voice modifier if necessary."

"So your main alias is…."

"Iron Beta," she rolls her eyes dramatically. "Geez, I thought I've stated this before. I always have been, and always will be, Iron Beta, Iron Man's second in command. It's been that way for six years now. I only branched out because of necessity, and technically this is all Clint's fault."

"Me?!" Clint looks up at his girlfriend, his head still on her lap. "How is this my fault?"

"Do you remember that time when I was fifteen, with the Zygone mission in Kansas*?"

He nods after a pause. "You and Tony got in a fight, right?"

She hums in confirmation. "And you told me I _could_ become Sparrow, a mini-you, if I ever got tired of doing what I was doing."

"So then you did this?"

"Not right away," she admits. "I stated developing this," she motions at the black clothes she was wearing, with the armor shoved behind the bed, "around…oh, I think it was…seventeen? Maybe sixteen and a half. Anyways, I developed this by myself in secret because I couldn't risk the press leaks. Sparrow stays under the radar, no exceptions."

"Will you be bringing the gear into the field?" Steve asks.

"It'll be where I need it," Taylor answers coyly. "If I need to get out of the suit in the middle of a battle, I'll already have my bow and a compact quiver on me, possibly also the glasses. But the boots, clothes, belt, and armor will stay on the jet otherwise."

"Will this change anything…otherwise?" Tony asks hesitantly.

Taylor turns to look at him. "Otherwise?"

He lets out a frustrated huff. "I mean, will you start threatening people with murder and stuff like that?"

Taylor blinks and gapes at him for a long moment before answering "Um, _no_ ," so awkwardly we all burst into laughter.

"Seriously, though," Taylor says once she's recovered most of her composure. "That's not going to happen. I'm not an assassin, I don't enjoy killing people – no offense, Tasha, Clint – and the only people I've killed have been bad guys. Nothing is going to change."

They both fall silent for a moment, having one of their silent father-daughter expression conversations that we can all tell have been happening for years before we arrived on the scene.

"Right," Tony coughs, "now that we've got all that mushy crap out of the way, can we get out of here?"

Taylor rolls her eyes and hops off the bed. "I'll go check. Don't burn down the place while I'm gone," she drawls, voice laced with sarcasm.

"But what if it lets us get out sooner?" Tony calls to her retreating back.

"I doubt it will!"

I chuckle as the doors close again, leaving Tony in a pout, muttering about how he owned the pace so it shouldn't matter what he did.

"Just remember who handles your paperwork," I advise. "She can make your life a living hell. Trust me, Phil's the same way."

"The power goes to he who handles the requisition forms," Clint offers, and I nod.

Tony just sulks more, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms petulantly and as best he could with the sling. "Fine."

"…I wonder if it'd be worth anything on the insurance policy if I did destroy the place?"

" _Tony!_ "

"Fiiiinnnee."

* * *

 *** = Refers to _Iron Beta: Life as Tony Stark's Daughter,_ chapter 9. Please read!**

 **And that's a wrap, folks! My second short story that was only supposed to be a three-shot.**

 **Please review, reviews make me happy!**


	6. MAJOR AUTHOR'S NOTE

**Major Author's note! Important!**

 **As of today, it has one year since I started writing my first book,** _ **Iron Beta: Life as Tony Stark's Daughter**_ **. One year.**

 **I would like to give a huge thank-you to every person that's ever reviewed, favorited, or followed any of my stories, because there's actually quite a lot of you and you have** _ **no idea**_ **how much I appreciate all of you.**

 **And now, a quick update.**

 _ **Iron Beta**_ **'verse (canon!Avengers):** _ **Dissension**_ **, the latest story in this verse, is coming along smoothly. I am accepting requests for one shots, please PM me if you have a request. And keep reviewing, following, etc.**

 _ **Saved by the Bell**_ **'verse (teacher AU Avengers): consider this verse on hiatus because my muse for that story died. Sorry for all of you that liked that story, but I am taking requests for other AUs as well. PM me or review with an AU idea.**

 _ **Whispers in the Dark**_ **(canon!Harry Potter): this should be getting updated fairly smoothly. The only problem I have with this is that fact that I am literally getting almost no reviews. Do you guys not like this? What's your stance? PLEASE TELL ME.**

 **If anyone has any questions, comments, concerns, suggestions, or the like, please PM me, review, or email me at ironsparrow99 [at symbol] gmail . com.**

 **Thanks,**

 **IronSparrow99.**


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